


Losing Touch

by Sarah_M



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Drama, Episode: s06e06 Abyss (Stargate), F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 08, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2019-10-21 13:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17643473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_M/pseuds/Sarah_M
Summary: Jack’s not sure how many more times he can go through this; how many more times he can watch Carter go through this. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the soft skin of her neck, fixated on watching the pulse there thrumming away steady and even.Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum.It’s a subtle movement that he desperately needs to see right now—a perfect visible reminder that she’s real, warm, alive and still here with him.Real. Warm. Alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins. My first overly ambitious multi-chapter story. 
> 
> A massive thank you to Sharim28 for being an amazing beta, for listening to me complain a lot and for being so darn encouraging about this fic. This wouldn't have seen past my hard drive without her.

  _Regrets collect like old friends_  
_Here to relive your darkest moments_  
_I can see no way, I can see no way_  
_And all of the ghouls come out to play_  
_And every demon wants his pound of flesh_  
_But I like to keep some things to myself_  
_I like to keep my issues strong_  
_But it's always darkest before the dawn_

 _Shake it off -_ _Florence + The Machine_  

 

* * *

 

Jack’s not sure how many more times he can go through this; how many more times he can watch Carter go through this. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the soft skin of her neck, fixated on watching the pulse there thrumming away steady and even.

 _Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum._  

It’s a subtle movement that he desperately needs to see right now—a perfect visible reminder that she’s real, warm, alive and still here with him.

Real. Warm. Alive.

The mantra inevitably begins rolling over in his head the same way it has each time they wake up, trapped back in their low-light cell, one more sarcophagus revival away from still being themselves.

No longer broken, but undeniably breaking.

The scenario is painfully familiar to him; Ba’al trying to cut away at his sanity one well-placed dagger at a time. Except this time around he’s not alone and having her here with him is nothing short of terrifying. Because it’s _her_. And because no matter what he does, not a single one of those piercing blades is for him. They’re for her—every damn time.

On the surface his death after hers appears merciful by comparison. Shot with a zat. That’s it. She is slowly and meticulously tortured to death in front of him and all he gets is a zat blast. It’s a final strategic move to drive home the fact that Ba’al knows how badly he would trade places with her if could, and a pointed reminder of how much less she would suffer if they did. It’s an additional twist of the knife for him and Ba’al is clearly pleased at watching him suffer in a new way.

He rests his back up against the wall, the stone feeling cold and uncomfortable against his skin even through his black standard issue shirt. He readjusts her head in his lap, trying to shift her into a position that’s perhaps marginally more comfortable, and does his best to ignore the metallic scent of blood that lingers on her uniform. She’s not conscious yet, but it won’t take long.

Studying her closely, he allows his fingertips to carefully brush through her hair before trailing down to the blood-stained skin of her neck. Ba’al takes a perverse pleasure in watching Jack’s agony each time he slits her throat in front of him, like it’s some kind of horrifying art form. The skin is back to the way it should be now, the only sign that it was ever anything other than perfect is the deep burgundy colour that cakes over the top of the previous dried layers.

The sarcophagus heals, but it doesn’t clean.

His fingers pause over her pulse, feeling assured by the movement under his touch; she's real. She’s not disappearing like Daniel did. Of course, unless they can find a way out of this mess, any relief he has about that should be overshadowed by the fact that they are set to repeat the same fate over and over again.

The slight crinkle of her brow and the flutter of her lashes tell him she’s close to waking up and he removes his fingers from her neck in favor of a firmly placed grip on her shoulder. He knows her reaction well enough by now.

Her eyelids open sluggishly, her blue eyes filled with a hazy quality of unawareness as she takes in her surroundings. A few seconds of blissful obliviousness. Then her gaze slowly settles on his face and the recollection of their dire situation seems to slam into her, jolting her body upright with a sharp intake of breath. Instinctively her hands clutch at her throat as if to check—the same way he does—that she really is intact. 

“Oh god,” she whispers, her eyes wide.

“You’re back, you’re back,” he rushes out.

He’s been particularly careful with his choice of words; he never tells her that _it’s alright_ or that _she’s okay_. Both are meaningless until they find a way out of this hell hole.

He tries to settle her as best he can, wrapping his arms tightly around her and ducking his face into her neck.

She leans into him without hesitation, resting her head on his shoulder and drawing in shallow breaths that puff out warmly against his skin as he waits for her brain to catch up with her body.

It’s what she needs right now and he won't deny her this comfort—especially when it’s what he needs too.

Eventually she pulls back reluctantly, casting her eyes down to assess the state of her uniform and then his.

He hates this part.

The part where it’s so blatantly obvious that she’s in a far worse state than he is. An extra tug of guilt pulls at him as she checks him over. Her uniform is littered with dagger sized rips and tears while his is more or less intact—save a few bloody drips from the odd eyebrow split and busted lip.

Her face becomes etched with confusion and worry as her attention is drawn to a place on his neck.

“You’re hurt,” she touches the skin there, swiping her thumb over something he can’t see.

Pointlessly straining to look down, it takes him a moment to realize what it is that must have her caught up in concern.

Blood splatter.

Hers.

Not his.

“No, I’m not,” he grasps at her fingers, guiding them away but keeping a firm hold of her hand.

There’s a peculiar look on her face at his answer and he wonders if she trying to decide if he’s telling the truth, or if she’s remembering her final moments before death.

Nodding her head slowly she shifts herself to sit by his side, leaning against him in way that he’s becoming accustomed to.

Both of them stare blankly ahead as his fingers brush over her hand between them. He alternates been caressing her up turned palm and tracing patterns over her wrist, feeling for the pulse there.

 _Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum._  

“You shouldn’t even be here, you’re supposed to be flying a desk now,” she says, clearly wanting to distract either her thoughts or his. “Here I thought you being promoted to General was going to keep you out of trouble.”

“Well you know me. I just can’t keep away,” he tries to oblige her.

A beat of silence passes between them.

“Do you have a plan?” she asks. 

“Sure, I have plan. We attack the guards when they come for us next.”

“So, the same plan as the one we had before?” 

“Yeah,” he answers softly. 

“The plan that didn’t work?”

Turning his head, he waits until she lifts her face to meet his eyes. “It’s the only one we have Carter.”

Her expression softens as she peers up at him and he can tell she’s looking to him for a way out of this that he just doesn’t have for her yet. She’s reaching, desperate for something to change—for the cavalry to arrive, or for a new plan of attack that has a better chance of success.

“I guess we wait,” she trails off, her voice breaking ever so slightly as she resumes studying the nothing in front of her.

Giving her hand a final squeeze, he lets it go and wraps his arm around her, pulling her a little closer and holding her a little tighter.

He so badly wants to tell her he’s thought of a new way out, that their friends aren’t far away, that it will be him next time instead of her, that Ba’al will be bored by now.

He so badly wants to lie to her.

Instead he presses a subtle kiss into her hair and says, “We wait.”

There are only two possible outcomes—either they escape this time or they don’t.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes before the General does.

Revived. Again.

The agonizing familiarity of the routine is driving her mad. Though that’s probably the whole point.

Quiet so as not to disturb him, she lets herself cry beside him for a short time, trying to smother the sound behind her hand. She is desperate to settle her nerves and search for that switch inside herself that will hopefully still turn on her ‘Soldier-Sam’ mode.

Right now, she is clinging onto the logical part of her brain that might somehow be able to think of something useful to get them the hell out of here. It’s difficult to think clearly when everything around her is a constant reminder of exactly how screwed they are—right down to the clothes on her back and the dried blood on her skin. Even the silence is starting to sound an awful lot like an echo of screaming inside her head; a mix of hers and his.

She slowly sits up, swipes the last of her tears away and shakes her head, as if the action will stop her thoughts from pulling her back to a place she doesn’t want to be.

Resting her chin on one knee, she takes her time to look over his relaxed body sprawled out on the unforgivingly hard floor beside her. His face is deceptively peaceful in sleep and she doesn’t want to wake him yet. Instead she carefully slides her hand into his and wiggles her fingers until they are threaded neatly together.

His presence is a comfort and conscious or not, she finds him incredibly grounding.

The errant thought has her brow pinching together and for the first time she contemplates why Ba’al locks them up together. Surely it would make more sense to keep them apart and worrying?

There’s a slight twitch of his hand in hers, but her mind is caught up elsewhere, trying to find some rational piece of logic in Ba’al’s motive. The grip on her hand becomes tighter and from the corner of her eye she can see him cautiously sit up.

“Why do you think he lets us stay together like this?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds far away; softer than she thought it would.

His fingers give hers a gentle squeeze and then a tug, until finally she turns to let her eyes meet his.

The peaceful expression she had been considering has disappeared and has been replaced with a deep line of worry between his eyebrows. His usually warm, humor filled eyes are tainted with concern. She doesn’t like it, but she supposes whatever way she looks to him right now is probably equally as unsettling.

He swallows hard and averts his gaze briefly, hesitating to speak. It becomes apparent to her that while it’s the first time she’s thought about this, maybe it’s not the first time he has.

“So we can see each other—sit here and care about each other. Worry together. Get closer...” he pauses, as if he’s unsure how honest he should be. “He wants it to hurt more.”

It takes her aback every time; the way his voice is no longer raw and hoarse from yelling and cursing. He never stops trying to save her, even if all he can use his is words.

“Right—of course,” she agrees, the calculation finally adding up.

The notion itself is twisted, but really, she thinks it would have been smarter move on Ba’al’s part to keep them separated. She can’t imagine what it would be like to be completely alone in this...

The General can though. He knows exactly what it’s like.

A pang of guilt stabs at her insides while she tries to find the courage to ask a question she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer to.

“How many times did he do this to you?”

His eyes shift away uncomfortably, finding the vacant space she’d been fixated on as interesting as she had. “I lost count.”

Pressing her eyes closed at the revelation, she tries to not to let panic swell at the thought. His hand squeezes hers again and this time she squeezes back tightly, holding onto him like he’s her life line—and in a lot of ways he is. 

“We aren’t there yet,” she says softly, as a sting of fresh tears forms behind her eyes.

“No. We’re not.” The quiet words sound as though they are meant to be soothing.

He lets go of her hand, releasing it in favor of moving to sit with his back against the wall. She feels the loss immediately, but once he’s there his bent legs shift slightly apart—enough space for her.

“Come here,” he offers.

Her hesitation barely lasts more than a few seconds before she settles herself to sit between his knees and carefully rests back against him.

It’s exactly what she needs right now; just a minute with him before she’ll pull herself together.

He is warm in comparison to the floor. Letting her eyes fall closed, she lets out a shaky breath and tries to relax further into him as he curls himself around her.

“We just need a little more time Carter. Someone is coming for us, I promise.”

“I know. I believe you.” Her voice is strained and she can feel her throat clenching up with emotion she instinctively wants to tramp down.

“Just a bit more time,” he repeats, like it’s an assurance for them both.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.” The admission comes out broken, and her shoulders begin to shake despite her efforts.

There’s a scratch of his stubble against the side of her face as her tears spring free, and maybe she’s imagining it but she might feel his lips against her skin.

He starts to say something, but stops and she can feel him tense up behind her before he starts again. “I’ll make sure it’s me next time—”

“Don’t,” she begs. “Please. You haven’t lied to me yet, I’m not sure I’m ready for you to start now.”

“Sam...”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes, trying to reign herself in.

The scrape of the heavy door at the end of the corridor cuts sharply through the moment, startling them both.

It’s too soon.

The General is quick to pull her to her feet and her body moves with his, but an immediate wave of panic crashes into her before she’s even upright. Fear races through her veins and compresses down heavily on her chest.

She’s not ready yet.

“I haven’t had enough time,” she rushes out.

She’s _not ready_ yet.

Stale air fills her lungs, drawn in rapidly through her parted lips over and over. Her eyes lock onto the empty place where the heavy thud of Jaffa footsteps will soon be.

Two firm hands grip her shoulders, holding onto her tightly until her eyes dart to meet a set of deep brown eyes that are filled with more worry than one person should experience.

Then the hands at her shoulders swiftly cup her cheeks and before she can think, his lips press hard against hers.

It’s bruising and slightly off the mark and nothing more than the pressure of his lips against hers. It’s not at all what she had imagined their first kiss would be like. But her eyes slip closed regardless, her breath catches in her chest and for an instant all her senses are flooded only with _him_.

His mouth is off hers sooner than she was prepared for.

“Are you with me?” he asks.

Is she? Can she keep doing this?

“Yes,” she nods in his hands.

Suddenly there’s a crinkle in his brow. His attention returns to the sound of the approaching steps from the corridor they can’t see down. It takes her stunned brain a little longer to work out why he’s finding it so interesting this time around.

It’s too quiet—it doesn’t sound like the usual amount of Jaffa.

Intimacy forgotten, he gives her a signal to move further back into the cell. On edge, they listen to the solitary echo of steps as they draw closer, until a single large Jaffa makes a cautious appearance.

“I am Suresh, free Jaffa. Your friends have been searching for you.”

Staring at their rescue on the other side of the bars, she very briefly wonders if she’s hallucinating.

“So pleased to meet you,” the General replies for them both. He’s already springing into action, grabbing her hand and pulling her with him.

“I am sorry I could not help you sooner,” the Jaffa apologizes, hastily unlocking the door.

“Those for us?” The General asks, eyeing off the gear the welcome stranger has bought with him. He’s itching to snatch it up—she is too.

Suresh is quick to pass them each a zat and their GDO. It feels so damn good to have a weapon in her hand again. Powerful. It feels like hope and a sure-fire way out of this mess. Finally.

“Hurry,” the Jaffa urges, “we do not have much time.”

Neither of them hesitates.

They don’t stop running until their feet hit the ramp with a familiar thud in the SGC.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally up! Phew. I got there. Thank you all for your patience! 
> 
> A _huge_ thank you to the wonderful Sharim28 for her magical beta skills. This wouldn't be what it is without her.

_So tell me when you hear my heart stop,_    
_You’re the only one who knows._    
_Tell me when you hear my silence,_    
_T_ _here’s a possibility I wouldn’t know._    
   
_Know that when you leave,_    
_By blood and by me, I fall when you leave._    
_B_ _y blood and by me, I’ll follow your lead._  

 _Possibility -_ _Lykke_ _Li_  

 

* * *

 

 _Pain. Every single nerve ending is burning with it. White and hot and unrelenting._  

 _Someone is screaming loudly over the General’s yelling. It sounds far away and foreign. It’s not until it stops that her exhausted brain finally makes the connection—it’s coming from her._  

 _The fresh blood that makes its way over her skin and soaks into her uniform is warm. Too warm. It’s hot against the patches of flesh that were just starting to become cold and gratefully numb._  

 _Instinct is begging her to rip out the daggers protruding from her body; to stop the intrusion that’s causing so much pain. And she’s positive she would—if she could._  

 _Carefully she draws in a shaky breath and forces down another wave of nausea. Focusing on keeping it at bay, she somehow manages to say something that sounds mostly coherent to her ears._  

 _“I won't... tell you... anything.”_  

 _She’s too disoriented to work out if it’s even loud enough for Ba’al to hear, and too tired to find the energy to lift her head, or open her eyes and actually look at him._  

 _But she doesn’t need to see him to hear the smug smile in his reply._  

 _“No, of course not. I’d almost be disappointed if you did. You see, you’re making the mistake of thinking that this is about getting an answer out of_ you _.”_  

 _The General is shouting something. Maybe at Ba’al. Maybe at her. Her brain can’t make sense of the words anymore. The rushing in her ears is growing progressively louder, filling her head until it drowns out the voices almost completely._  

 _Everything moves slowly. So slowly. Frighteningly slowly._  

 _She’s dying._  

 _But she already knew that._  

 _Fingers curl tightly into her hair and yank her head back. She opens her eyes at the sudden forced movement and immediately inky spots begin to cloud her vision. It’s not fast enough though, not quick enough to stop her from seeing the fear-stricken face of the General as something sharp presses against her throat._  

 

Sam’s eyes snap open to a familiar grey ceiling.

Not prison cell grey though—infirmary grey.

The IV line in her arm tugs awkwardly, catching on the starchy cotton sheets as her hands clutch at her stomach in search of wounds that aren’t there. The ceiling color alone isn’t quite enough of a reassurance that the vivid nightmare isn’t a reality.

Her movements are oddly sluggish; heavy with drug induced lethargy. Something about it feels synthetic in nature, like her body is hitting an invisible barrier that refuses to properly allow the very real wash of all-consuming panic to properly set in. Her hands should be shaking. Her breaths should be ragged. The heart monitor beside her should be mirroring her distress, flooding the space with sharp noisy spikes, but it’s not. Nothing right now is quite the way it should be.

Gripping the sheets at her sides, she curls and uncurls her fingers in the fabric repetitively, hoping the small action will be enough to help her fight the urge to drift off to sleep. It must be late, or very early, and whatever Brightman gave her is still streaming through her system, but there’s stubborn traces of fear lingering. Experience tells her that falling asleep again will only mean she ends up back in a place she doesn’t want to be. She'd rather stay awake. 

The bounce-back from this one is rough. Unsurprisingly, sarcophagus withdrawal isn’t exactly a walk in the park. It's been a sickening parting gift they never asked for—as if they haven’t been through enough.

Thankfully the days of full-body aches, nausea, and night-sweats that don’t strictly adhere to the time of day they claim to, have mostly passed for them both. It’s the nightmares that are the most difficult to shake, and to top that off, she is frustratingly bouncing between overwhelming exhaustion and periods of full-blown insomnia. 

Now that she’s thinking about it, she does have a vague recollection of Dr Brightman dosing her with something to try and help her sleep. It’s possible that she might have been a little snippy about it.

Irrationally irritable also seems to be a side effect; it doesn’t suit her. The moody patient routine should really be left to the one of them that’s already most familiar with it.

She turns her heavy head to the side and looks over to the bed next to hers. The General is fast asleep. Usually he’s already sitting up in bed when she wakes, watching her intensely, his eyes filled with concern. There's no physical comfort between them here. He’s tethered to the infirmary bed with IV lines and monitors, the same way she is. So, she figures the extra _something_ in his eyes is him trying to offer her a touch he can’t give. 

She still has his reassuring presence, for now at least.

Her eyes focus on the rise and fall of his chest beneath the white linen, concentrating on the steady movement and trying to ground herself with it. Inevitably her eyes wander and end up finding his lips.

They haven’t talked about the kiss.

Well, they haven’t had an opportunity to talk about the kiss either. But the more time passes, the more she thinks there’s a really good chance that they’ll maybe _never_ talk about the kiss. It’s not like it was some passionate exchange; the scenario was far from perfect.

Ba’al had intentionally kept them together so they would get closer and it worked—except she’s not sure what are they supposed to do with that closeness now that they are home. They’re not locked away anymore, alone and feeling the fear and desperation of impending torture and death on replay. They’ll be expected to go back to the way they were—to put all the walls between them firmly back in place.

There’s also the fact that she has Pete waiting for her to be released. He’s called—a lot—and that’s probably something she should be grateful for. She should be thinking about him too...

It’s complicated. More so than usual.

It’s no one’s fault, despite the apologies almost everyone seems to think they need to make. No one could have predicted Ba’al’s Jaffa would show up on the planet. That Daniel and Teal’c managed to get back to the Gate was lucky. They were luckier still that anyone managed to find her and the General at all.

The fact that it came down to something as uncontrollable as luck is almost a bitter pill to swallow. It would be nice to have something tangible that she could blame it on, something to pin point, analyse and correct for the future. Instead, all she’s left with is a stint of withdrawal she would rather do without, more complexities added to a relationship that’s already complex enough, and an enormous weight of guilt as she watches the man next to her.

For all she’s been through, he's now been through it twice, and she’s never felt more aware of her role in the first set of circumstances.

The curtain flutters gently, making way for one of the nursing staff who stops at the foot of her bed.

“Colonel, you’re awake?” The woman remarks softly, clearly surprised as she meets her eyes and reaches for her medical chart.

“Mm,” she nods against her pillow, hoping that this interaction ends only with her obs being taken, and not with her being sedated back to sleep.

“I’d offer you something, but we can’t give you anything else to help you sleep just yet,” she says, her voice hushed as she puts the chart back down and moves to carefully wrap a blood pressure cuff around her arm.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs.

The nurse quickly jots down her notes, going about her task as quietly as possible. The routine disturbance is enough to rouse her senses just a little more, for which she’s thankful.

“You’ll be home in your own bed before you know it Colonel,” she says with a reassuring smile.

As if the location of her bed has anything to do with her inability to sleep.

In a few more days they’ll be released. She’s trying to be happy about that, to be grateful, but it’s hard to ignore the sinking feeling that settles in the pit of her stomach. There’s a part of her that isn’t ready to let go of the General just yet. And she’s not sure she’s ready to go home to man who will have an endless list of questions for her—questions that she can’t answer.

If she were allowed to choose, she would pick the company of another man, one who understands what she’s been through, and wouldn’t begrudge her the simple comfort of sitting in silence.

 

* * *

 

 _He’s stuck._  

 _Despite his best efforts, his body remains uncooperative. With his feet bare, cold and firmly rooted to the floor, he stands in the familiar room perfectly still. The air around him is cool against his skin. It’s as if there is a light breeze in the room—which is odd—and it’s not helping much_ _. He’s sweating enough to make his t-shirt cling to him uncomfortably._  

 _He’s not entirely sure how got _here_ , or why he’s wearing his pajamas._ 

 _He casts his eyes around the empty space. He knows it well—the ridges of the walls, the patterns on the floor. He’s studied the layout enough times to know exactly how many steps there are between him and the only exit. It’s eerily silent now. It wasn’t last time._  

 _He watched Carter die in this room. She was killed here. More than once._  

 _The thought of her triggers an instant change. In a blink of an eye the space morphs. It’s suddenly filled with the right people, in the right places, painting a disturbingly accurate picture for him—right down to the acute sense of dread that stifles the air. The only thing that’s missing is the sound. There's no noise other than his own heavy breaths._  

 _This is a dream. He’s dreaming._  

 _It becomes obvious to him, somehow, in a way it so rarely does during sleep._  

 _Unsettling as the scene is, it isn’t real. It was real, but it isn’t right now._  

 _There should be some safety in that knowledge, but it doesn’t stop his heart from pounding hard in his chest at the sight of Carter. Unconscious and slumped over herself, her arms above her head carrying her weight in a way that must be painful. The skin at her wrists is red and raw, damaged from straining against the metal cuffs—he remembers his being the same. It’s nowhere near as disconcerting as the blade that’s lodged in her belly, or the deep red pool of blood that steadily spreads on the floor under her boots._  

 _The inability to move isn’t affecting his overwhelming ability to feel. Unrestrained rage and hate and fear bubbles mercilessly under his skin, and he wishes he could open his mouth to let some of it—any of it—out. Instead he’s trapped inside his body, watching a version of himself from a distance, a memory of himself just as stuck and just as powerless._  

 _Ba’al paces in front of the other Jack, smug and smiling, with a clean dagger playing back and forth between his hands. The scene is still muted, but he knows what Ba’al is about to say. His memory can fill in the gaps the dream isn’t providing._  

 _“She has spirit, I can see why you like her. The question is, do you care for her enough to save her from more of this? You have a choice.”_  

 _It’s not a real choice; logically he knows that. Nothing he could say or do would have saved either of them._  

 _Every part of him wants to stop this... but he doesn’t._  

 _Ba’al moves towards her with clear intent, and Jack’s eyes fixate on the blade in his hands. The sense of dread that’s thick in the air around him seeps into his skin, flushes through his veins and grows rapidly with every racing beat of his heart._  

 _He wants to wake up. He doesn’t want to see this again. He’s already lived it._  

 _The sound that was switched off rushes back. Her scream pierces the air around him, the noise assaulting his senses. Too loud. Too much._  

 _She is blood and sweat and tears and terror._  

 _The version of himself that should be yelling at Ba’al, that can yell, isn’t playing his part. Instead he’s staring straight at Jack as if he has become aware of himself watching, and is looking at him with fury in his eyes._  

 _“Help her!”_  

 _Somehow the demand is louder than her screaming._  

 

Jack wakes to the sound of his own voice echoing in the darkness of his bedroom.

The potent mix of guilt and fear still rushes wildly through his body and he takes in long, heavy breaths in an attempt to expel it.

In the dim light he can just make out curtains waving at his open window, and a soft current of air blows over him, cooling his sweat damp skin. The sensation is enough of distraction to help ease some of the tightly bound tension in his body.

With a sigh he scrubs a hand over his face, kicks away the sheets tangled around his legs, and makes for the bathroom. He fumbles blindly for the light switch and winces reactively the moment the bright light successfully floods his eyes. Uncaring, he blinks it back and strips off his clothing. By the time his eyes adjust he’s already soaking under the hot spray of the shower.

The sound of the water beating down drowns out what’s left of her scream in his head, and he uses the soap and warm water to wash away the nightmare—like it’s a stain on his skin that can slip away down the drain.

Sleep. Wake. Shower. Try again.

Sleep is hard to find and even when he finds it, it’s not what it should be. It’s a fragmented cycle that leaves him tired and weary.

For all his complaining about wanting to get the hell out of the infirmary, home isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. He’d been looking forward to some actual privacy, some time alone and away from prying eyes, but now that he’s here, he’s very aware of the fact that she _isn’t_.

More than once, he’s woken and turned to look for a Carter-shaped figure who isn’t beside him anymore. Real. Warm. Alive. Her soft skin thrumming away under his fingertips. His fingers almost twitch at the thought. He leans his weight into his hands, pressing his palms against the condensation streaked tiles in order to suppress it. 

He misses her.

He’s worried about her too. Worried about how she’s dealing and coping. Worried about what all of this crap is going to do to them. They’ve all been through plenty of distasteful things in the past, things they would rather not think about, but this was... different. This was uniquely terrifying and personal and raw and he knows, _he knows_ , that they’ve blurred lines between them in order to get through it.

Unblurring them could be a real problem.

He cuts the water, steps out of the shower and towels himself off. After four nights of this, he has perfected the routine; he’s clean and dry and back in bed in under five minutes. Now all he has to do is try and go back to sleep for a few more hours.

The permission to be released from the infirmary came as a package deal; mandatory down time, a regular schedule of shrink sessions, and prescriptions of sleeping pills that he’s told he can take. Except chances are he won’t. It's impractical. If shit happens to hit the fan at the SGC, he’s not going to be able to do a hell of a lot of good if he’s doped to the eyeballs on relaxants. The irony is that he’s dead tired anyway, and he wishes his body wasn’t having as much trouble falling asleep as it is.

He relaxes against the pillows and does what he can to keep the nightmares in shower where he’d left them.

Across town there’s every possibility that she’s laying in her bed caught up in the same turmoil he is. The only difference is that right now she’s in another man's arms while he’s laying here alone.

He might have been the one to hold her, squeeze her hand, even kiss her, but when it’s all said and done, she's not his to have.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to the wonderful Sharim28 for both the beta and the constant encouragement. <3

_I think I might've inhaled you,_    
_I can feel you behind my eyes._    
_You've gotten into my bloodstream,_    
_I can feel you floating in me._    
  
_Bloodstream - Stateless_  

 

* * *

 

Jack’s cell phone rings on the fifth night at home, the shrill noise interrupting the hockey game that he is—and isn’t—watching. He tenses involuntarily when her name flashes up on the caller ID. 

“Carter?” 

A long silence greets him before he hears her voice at the other end of the line. 

“Do you think you could come over?” 

There’s no hello, no apology for calling at such a late hour, and no honorific at the end of the question. It’s just a tight string of words that ends with a sigh; a question she’s obviously been agonizing over. He has a mental picture of her dialing his number several times and hanging up before the first ring. 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there soon.” 

There’s a lot of things he should ask her first, but doesn’t. 

Before long he’s on her front porch, knocking on her door with a six pack of beer in one hand, and a niggling feeling in his gut that tells him he shouldn’t really be here. Maybe the one question he should have asked is where exactly Pete is. Although, call it a hunch, but he’s pretty sure it won’t be the three of them having a movie night together. 

There’s the clunk of the lock, a turn of the handle, and then the door opens to reveal a rather scrappy looking Carter. With dark circles under her eyes and her hair a little mussed, everything about her appearance screams that she’s completely exhausted. Even her baggy sweats and old academy t-shirt look worn-out—like the fatigue has managed to leech out of her body and into her clothing. Her eyes meet his with an apologetic stare; he’s not the only one who’s apprehensive. 

“Well you look like crap,” he says honestly. 

“Thank you, sir, so do you.” 

Touché. It’s true though, so there’s no point denying it. He holds up the six pack and says, “I bought beer—a classic treatment for trauma of all kinds.” 

She huffs out a dry laugh and half-hearted though it might be, the smile looks good on her. He jokes; she laughs. It’s good to know some things don’t change. She opens the door wider for him, and he duly ignores the uncomfortable prickle of tension that passes between them as he brushes past her. 

Trailing a safe distance behind her, he follows her wordlessly into the kitchen and drops the beers on the bench. In the time it takes him to tear the cardboard casing to remove two bottles, she’s already located a bottle opener. She’s remarkably fast at finding something that comes from a second drawer in a kitchen. No one should be that organized—she's a neat freak. Her eyes stay fixed on the bottles as she silently opens both beers next to him, even though the task doesn’t actually require her full attention. Finally, her hesitant eyes glance up at him again as she offers one of the bottles to him with an outstretched hand. 

He sees her then; really sees her. Behind the obvious nerves and exhaustion is the woman he’s shared a uniquely harrowing experience with. She’s still Carter, still Sam, but she’s also the person he’s seen bloodied and broken; the one he’s both held and been held up by. No one gets out of something like _that_ without being left with a mark. And though she has no scars marring her skin, there is still something etched into her that he can see in her eyes while it’s still new and fresh and raw. 

He wonders, with her blue eyes looking back at him, if she can see the same thing in him. 

As he reaches to take the drink from her, he lets his fingers skim over the top of hers. They linger there longer than strictly necessary, until her eyes slowly shift down to look at the warm touch. 

 _Real. Warm. Alive._  

He pulls away reluctantly, ending the contact that should have been briefer than it was. There’s a change in the set of her shoulders and it’s paired with an uneasy expression. He swallows down whatever it means with a long pull from the bottle in his hands and she does the same. 

“Technically we’re not supposed to drink on those sleeping pills,” he says, offering up the comment as a distraction. 

“I haven’t been using them,” she admits with a wince. 

That’s not exactly surprising—he can tell by the state of her that she’s not getting any kind of decent rest. 

“You don’t say...” he quips with a raised eyebrow. She rewards him with another half-smile. 

“I worry if I take them, there’s a chance I’ll miss a call when someone at the base needs my help.” 

“I get that,” he nods slowly in understanding. It's funny how alike they can be. 

He reaches for the discarded bottle caps on the bench, his fingers playing over the jagged edges for a beat before he crosses the kitchen to toss them in the trash. He immediately frowns at amount of used coffee grounds he finds there. How much caffeine can one person consume? Admittedly, there’s Pete, so this could be for two. 

“I think I may have found another reason you’re not sleeping well,” he eyes the bin pointedly and then her. 

She makes a face in response. “That’s from after I wake up,” she explains awkwardly. 

So, that’s her routine. Sleep. Wake. Coffee. Don’t go back to sleep. 

No wonder she’s so tried. 

Just like that, she shows him just how different they can be too. Her instinct is to reach for a stimulant, while he has always been the type to lean towards a depressant—hence the beer. 

“Is Pete on a coffee run then?” Smooth. Very subtle. 

She instantly avoids his eyes at the topic. It appears the label on her beer bottle has become very interesting. 

“Uh, no, he left for an urgent case yesterday. He probably won’t be back for a few days at least.” 

That niggle in his gut is back again. 

“So, you rang and I’m here... did you want to talk?” he says slowly. Her eyes snap up, and she gives him a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look that tells him that’s not the right thing to say. “Or we can just sit and watch something on TV while we finish these,” he offers quickly, indicating to the beers. 

“TV sounds good,” she nods and makes her way toward the sofa. 

Maybe between the shrink and Pete she’s had enough of sharing her feelings. Talking was never really his thing anyway. Besides, he’s not above just sitting with her if that’s really what she needs. 

It says something about where she’s at, for her to actually pick up the phone and call him to just _sit_ with her. It says something about him too; that he came here so quickly, to do something that they _don’t do_. 

She’s not all-that-okay yet. And neither is he. 

He settles down on the couch next to her, close but not too close, and she hands him the remote. He starts flicking through the channels until finally he settles on a documentary—something about whales that seems nice and safe. Instead of watching it though, he watches her while she concentrates (he’s sure) on keeping her tired eyes open. With one leg curled underneath her (he's never understood how that’s comfortable) most of her body seems relaxed, with the exception of her fingers, which are wrapped around her beer tightly; like she won't quite let herself get all the way there. 

“Are the dreams still bad?” 

She straightens up and glances at him apprehensively. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it?” 

“We don't have to,” he assures her. 

He takes another drink and watches her mull over the question anyway, turning it over in her head despite him giving her an out. 

“Yeah, they’re still bad. You?” 

“Yeah. It’ll get better though.” He feels like he owes her some kind of reassurance that she’s going to get through this—that they both will. 

A short silence settles between them before she says softly, “I know. I believe you.” 

There’s still so much _trust_ in her voice. He’s not sure he’s deserving of that kind of faith. 

She stares at him with an ache in her eyes that he can _feel_ under his skin; the sting of it washing through him as her eyes become glassy and wet. Eventually she looks away, back down to the bottle in her hands. Anxiety rolls off her in waves. 

“I’m, um...” she starts, but the sentence is swallowed down. She blows out a short puff of breath and he can tell she’s trying to blink back tears. Her voice is caught up somewhere between her brain and her mouth as she teeters on the edge of something she clearly wants to say. 

“I’m sorry,” finally falls from her lips. 

He frowns, genuinely confused. “For what?” 

Shouldn’t he be the one apologizing; for not being able to keep her safe; for being so easy to read that Ba’al picked her to prey on instead of him; for her being used to get to him? 

“I'm a big part of the reason you were there at all,” she says quietly. 

It sounds an awful lot like an admission of guilt and his frown deepens.  

“Not this time. Last time,” she clarifies. 

“Hey,” he stops her. “None of that is on you,” he adds firmly, making sure to hold her stare. 

“You didn’t want a symbiote, but I asked you to do it anyway, and you did it because _I_ asked you.” Her strained voice cracks and it hurts to hear.  

This suddenly feels like a conversation that they should have had a long time ago. 

“You’re conveniently forgetting the part where I was dying, and if I hadn’t done it, I’d be dead.” 

He seriously hopes she hasn’t been sitting here berating herself for days about this, because they have more than enough crap to cope with right now. She doesn’t need this too. 

“Carter, I have never, ever blamed you. Not once. Don’t carry that—it’s not for you.” 

The rapid blinking is no longer enough to keep her emotions in check. She half-turns her face away and swipes at her cheeks quickly; like maybe he won’t see the tears if she can get rid of them fast enough. 

“We put so much effort into not making us obvious… and Ba’al figured it out just like that. Using it against us that way,” she chokes out and presses her eyes closed. 

Even though they are barely above a whisper, the words hit him hard in the chest. He’s pleased her eyes aren’t open, so she doesn’t see him flinch. 

Ba’al’s voice echoes inside his head. 

 _‘It has occurred to me that you didn’t once mention the lovely Colonel Carter last time we were together. You deliriously spoke of Doctor Jackson and even the traitor_ _Teal’c_ _. But not her name. Hers’ you_ _kept_ _from me. I can’t help but find that interesting. Don’t you?’_  

He quickly pushes the memory aside, before it draws him too far in. 

“The irony isn’t lost on me.” 

He sees the moment the last of her emotional strength for this conversation crumbles away. Maybe he shouldn’t be the one to hold her right now, but he wants to and part of him has to. 

“Come here,” he urges, shifting closer to her. He tugs her arm with a hand that been itching to reach out and touch her for days, and leans her carefully against him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just tired,” she says, pressing her face against his shoulder—as if she actually needs an excuse for her tears. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

He pries the mostly untouched beer from her hand, and leans forward enough to place it on the coffee table along with his own. Her hand moves over the front of his shirt and her fingers splay over his chest; the action warms him. He holds her a little tighter, pulling her with him further back into the sofa, and his fingers thread through her hair as she rests her weight against him. 

He’s meant to be comforting her but he feels like a fraud; he’s never known the right things to say or do in these moments. Honestly, he’s not even sure who’s comforting who. With her this close—her tears creating damp patches on the cotton of his shirt and the smell of whatever shampoo she’s used in her tousled hair—he feels surrounded by her. It’s worryingly soothing.  

He sits like this with her for longer than he’d care to admit, until they are both relaxed and drained and eventually close to sleep.  

“I should go. Let you get some rest,” he murmurs into her hair. 

“You don’t have to go,” she mumbles, on the edge of drifting off. 

He’s not sure if she meant say it out loud. It’s tempting on so many levels; which tells him that he should leave. _This_ has already crossed over a line and moved into a zone that’s far too comfortable. 

Reluctantly, he pulls himself out from under her with a sigh. He has every intention of doing the right thing and heading home, until she peers at him with bleary, half-lidded eyes that are struggling to stay open. He can see the edge of disappointment there. In the seconds he takes between looking at her and glancing toward the entry, he decides that maybe in the morning he can come up with a convincing rationalization about why it’s okay for him to stay this one time. 

Instead of heading for the front door, he switches off the lights, mutes the television, and comes back to her. The blue glow of the tv-screen washes over her and he catches the relief that floods her face in the dim light. That’s enough of a reason for now. 

They rearrange themselves to lay down in the narrow space (he won’t be surprised if he finds himself falling onto the floor at some point during the night). When she’s half pressed against the back of the sofa, half into him, he props a cushion under his head and pulls the throw down over her.  

If she has any uncertainty right now, it’s not enough to keep her awake—for once she doesn’t seem to be thinking as much as he is. Her head lulls against his chest and he can just make out her eyes slowly blinking closed as the sleep she’s been avoiding finally takes her.  

Sweeping a hand up over her soft form, he presses his fingertips gently against the pulse at her neck. 

 _Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum._  

He pays close attention of the rise and fall of her chest, the perfect rhythm of her pulse beating strong and steady, and her even breaths puffing out against his t-shirt. 

 _Real_. _Warm_. _Alive_. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

 

* * *

 

There’s an annoying tickle of hair at his nose and lips as he wakes, but the soft feminine body slung over him more than makes up for it. It takes a few moments of wandering hands and some hazy blinks before his foggy brain catches with him. The mop of blonde hair in his face is Carter’s—as is the smooth hip his thumb is circling. He quickly removes his hand from under the edge of her shirt without startling her; one wrong move will find him on the receiving end of a hard floor. 

That niggle in his gut from last night is feeling a lot stronger in the morning. 

She stretches and arches against him lazily as she rouses from sleep, and his fingers catch around her wrist just before it snakes under the hem of his shirt. She blinks up at him with a confused look, before it’s replaced with something more appropriately sheepish. 

“Um, coffee?” she mumbles, untangling herself from him and scrubbing a hand over her face. 

There’s a lot of good reasons he should just make a quick and decisive exit, but he finds himself replying with, “Sure, if you think you can spare it.” 

Carter’s boyfriend would probably not appreciate that they’re topping off the night they've spent cuddling on her sofa with a hot cup of coffee in the morning. What the hell is wrong with him? 

The mug is warm in his hands, but maybe not as warm as the flush on her cheeks while they lean against the kitchen cabinetry sipping the strong brew in silence. He catches a few fleeting looks from her while he pretends to find the contents of his mug more fascinating than it really is. 

Neither of them is willing to discuss that they apparently sleep comfortably together in a space that’s ideal for one. He also absolutely will not read into the fact that neither of them woke during the night, because logically that can’t mean anything; he’ll chalk that co-incidence up to being insanely tired. 

They end up finishing their coffee with the same prickle of tension that he arrived with in the first place. 

He places his empty mug on the sink and clears his throat. “Well, I’d love to stay for some more overt awkwardness, but I do have to go to the base this morning to talk with Colonel Reynolds. He’s keeping my seat warm for me.” 

“Okay,” she nods and purses her lips together to smother her smile at his flippant call-out. “Thanks for coming around... and staying.” 

He could say that it’s fine, but he won’t.  

“You should get some more sleep. Take those pills. I promise I’ll swing by and pick you up on the way through to the next galactic emergency.” 

“I’ll think about it.” Her small smile lingers a little longer. 

“Good,” he nods slowly. 

A few drawn out seconds pass by and despite his better judgement he edges closer to her, standing in front of her almost toe to toe. His fingers skim from her elbow to her wrist, touching her, but barely. It feels like a hell of a lot more than a friendly goodbye and he knows it. And so does she.  

There’s an unmistakable hitch in her breath and an unguarded look in her eyes as she holds her empty mug to her chest. His eyes flick down to her lips and hers do the same to his; it’s unfair of him, since he already knows he won’t be touching her there. Instead he leans forward to presses a kiss to her forehead. Her eyes slip shut at the gesture and when he pulls away, it’s hard to ignore the part of her that’s wanting something _more_. 

Those blurred lines between them aren’t looking any clearer yet. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” he murmurs, giving her hand a quick final squeeze. 

She gives him a tight smile and a nod in response, which he thinks is meant to come off as reassuring. 

But she doesn’t quite pull it off. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, I know what you're thinking—'but wasn't this abandoned centuries ago?'. Fair. But actually I have been working through this chapter one painstaking section at a time until it ate tiny pieces of my soul. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for sticking with me, and thank you to those of you who have kindly listened to me whine and vent about this chapter at one point or another. 
> 
> I'm forever grateful to Sharim28 for doing such a fabulous beta on this chapter. So many times. For so long. And for encouraging me at every turn when this felt so impossible. THANK YOU. (if I could make the text bigger I would).

_"It's so beautiful here," she says,_  
_"This moment now, and this moment now."_  
_And I never thought I would find her here:_  
_Flannel and satin, my four walls transformed._  
_But she's looking at me, straight to center,_  
_No room at all for any other thought._  
_And I know I don't want this, oh I swear I don't want this.  
There's a reason not to want this but I forgot._

_  
Recessional – Vienna Teng_

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you’re doing okay? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re looking a little rough.” 

A prickle of annoyance starts under his skin as he looks across his dining room table at Daniel. He should’ve known the offer for lunch wouldn’t be free; the cost is probably going to be a game of twenty questions that he has no interest in being a part of. The warm waft of Thai food doesn’t smell as appealing as it did a moment ago.

“You don’t need to check up on me,” he grumbles warningly, and stabs his fork into his cardboard carton with a little more vigour than absolutely necessary.

“No of course not,” Daniel frowns behind his glasses, obviously unconvinced. “I’m just bringing you and Sam lunch on my break because you’re both taking such good care of yourselves. I don’t need to worry at all.”

He bites back the urge for an equally sarcastic reply in favour of taking the Carter-bait that Daniel’s angled into the conversation. The last time he saw her she was standing in her kitchen with a mug in her hands; a breath away from a kiss that didn’t happen.

She hasn’t called again. Neither has he.

“You’re going to Carter’s place?” He does a passable job of sounding less interested than he is, and keeps forking at his noodles.

“Yeah. Having time off isn’t something she’s good at. Teal’c and I are still dropping in—checking if she’s doing okay, especially with Pete away,” Daniel says, and then pauses as he if he’s considering his next words carefully. “I’m not sure that I’m really the best person to help her deal with this...”

The measured words and the hesitant but pointed look make the insinuation clear; Daniel thinks he’s staring at the right person for the job.

“Daniel, I don’t even know how many times you’ve died anymore. You should basically be an expert at this.” His reply is flippant, and deliberately so; he isn’t entirely sure he can be what she needs right now.

This whole ordeal has been a slippery slope to navigate, and it’s one they could still easily tumble down. He’s pretty sure they’ve already stumbled enough times as it is. They spent a night sleeping tucked up against each other, and his goodbye in the morning was punctuated with a press of his lips to her skin. That’s not _nothing_ —it’s a whole lot of _something_.

“She’s not getting enough sleep—I think she’s still having nightmares,” Daniel finally says, stirring the food in the carton instead of eating it.

“Yeah, that can happen.” He discards his lunch on the table, and scrubs a hand over the two-day growth at his jaw. Looks like the conversation has put a damper on both their appetites.

“You know what she’s going through better than I do.”

“Daniel—”

“Jack.”

“There are a lot of reasons I can’t be _that_ person for her,” he says honestly.

“What, like her friend?”

Jack shoots him a warning look. Daniel knows that’s not the questionable part here. The fact is, he cares too much _._

“Talk to her,” Daniel presses.

“I have. We talked the other day,” he says, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. 

Daniel’s expression takes a sharp turn towards curiosity.

“Well, that’s good—great. What did you say?”

“We discussed at length how annoying you can be and how much we miss Jonas.”

Daniel rolls his eyes and leans back into his chair; the detour to curiosity didn’t last long.

Jack taps his fingers along the edge of the table. He gets that all the prodding is coming from a good place. There’s more than enough guilt between them all right now, and he knows that both Daniel and Teal’c are dealing with their own share, no matter how misplaced it is.

Sighing, he averts his eyes and then unwisely throws Daniel a proverbial bone.

“We had coffee at her place and watched whales on TV.” Okay sure, the order is off and there might be a few bits missing in between, but it’s not a lie.

“Brilliant,” Daniel says, visibly unimpressed.

“Shut up.”

Daniel doesn’t bite back though, instead his shoulders sag and he gives Jack a long, weary look in return. “You are literally the only person on this entire planet who understands exactly what she is going through right now—and you’ve been through it before. She needs you. And whether you want to admit it or not, I think you need her too.”

Daniel is so on point that Jack hates him just a little bit for it.

What Daniel doesn’t understand is how hard it is to try and make himself take a step back when everything else right now is pushing him inch by inch towards her.

He’s too familiar with her; with her touch and her tears and her death.

Soon they’ll both be back on base, back to General and Colonel _,_ and he doesn’t know how the hell he is supposed to reconcile that yet.

“I’ll call her,” he eventually says. It should worry him how little effort it takes for him to concede to the part of him that cares more about her rather than his duty.

“Good,” Daniel says firmly, then his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands up and reaches for the bags with the rest of the takeout. “Now I’m going to get this food to Sam before it gets too cold.”

“It’s always fun when you visit,” he says glib, and lets out a sigh.

“Isn’t it?” Daniel grins, but the smile doesn’t last long, and it’s replaced with something more serious as it falls away. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ll say it again anyway; I’m here for you if you need anything or if you want to talk about it. Teal’c too.”

“I know. Thanks,” he says softly, with a hint of a nod.

 

* * *

 

There’s a bubble in her chest and it feels like it’s slowly expanding. It’s heavy and light at the same time, and she’s not sure if it’s new these past few days, or if it’s been there since she got back. Maybe it only seems pronounced now because she has nothing substantial to occupy her time with…

Spending this much time alone with her thoughts can’t be a good thing; she needs to get back to work.

Her fingers circle around a hot cup of coffee as she sits at her dining room table and stares at her cell phone waiting for the inevitable afternoon phone call. Pete checks in with her three times a day, every day, like clockwork. It should be a welcome distraction, but it’s almost like they’re replaying the same conversation over and over again.

He’ll ask if she’s alright and she’ll assure him that she is, even though she's not sure it’s true. There’ll be a back and forth of mundane questions and a few snippets of his day, until he tells her that he’s sorry he can’t be there and that he misses her. She always says “it’s okay” and “I miss you too” back down the line to him. Except she’s becoming increasingly aware that only one of the two responses feels honest.

It should bother her that he’s not here, and she should miss him. Isn’t that what couples do when they aren’t with each other? Frowning at the phone, she grips the smooth ceramic mug a little tighter as she brings it to her lips. The sip of the dark brew tastes bitter in her mouth, and she welcomes it. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t take her coffee this strong, but since she’s been home everything feels so far removed from her version of normal. 

Her dreams are still stopping her from finding proper rest; Janet would probably say the caffeine isn’t helping her cause.

She wonders whether the vivid nightmares are some kind of residual side effect of the reanimation process. Either that or it’s all purely psychological. Both options are equally unnerving. She’s never felt this apprehensive about slipping between her sheets, and she’s so damn tired of being tired.

Her gaze reflexively crosses the room to settle on her sofa—the last place she actually did have a decent sleep. If she stares long enough, she can see the General laying there, stretched out against the cushions with a tired and needy version of herself pressed firmly along his side.

She presses her eyes closed and sighs heavily. The man she shouldn’t miss hasn’t called, and the man she should miss calls every day.

The vibration of her cell phone against the hardwood startles her from her thoughts. She very briefly considers just not picking it up… but she relents, sets her half-finished coffee down and flips her cell open.

She straightens unconsciously when the name that flashes across the screen is the exact opposite of what she expected.

“Sir, hi,” she answers, and immediately cringes at the surprise that’s evident in her tone.

“Hey, Carter.” His voice contains exactly the right amount of uncomfortable that she would expect from him, but there’s still warmth to it. “So, there’s this documentary about jellyfish on tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe you might want to come over... and watch it.”

The invitation is clumsy and awkward, and it occurs to her now that the whole time he’d been here, consoling her and trying to relieve her of her guilt, not once did she ask him how _he_ was doing with all this. She wonders if this is his way of trying to tell her that he needs her this time.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” she agrees with a nod he can’t see.

“Okay. It starts at eight, so I’ll see you around then—or whenever is good for you.”

“No, eight sounds fine. I’ll be there.”

A distinct flutter of nerves makes an appearance in her stomach after she hangs up.

It disappears when her phone rings again; this time with the call she’d expected. 

 

* * *

 

Realistically, at some point she is either going to have to get out of her car and knock on his front door, or drive back home. Sitting in her commanding officers’ driveway all night isn’t really an option. She bites nervously at the edge of her thumb as her fingers of her other hand toy with the door handle.

The long hours in the afternoon have given her enough time to overthink his invitation, and she can’t help wondering if it’s smart or stupid for him to lean on her right now—or for her to lean on him.

Maybe it’s both.

Maybe it’s plain selfish.

And maybe, right now, she needs to be able to live with that.

The night air is crisp as it wisps through the fabric of her clothing, the chill of it momentarily chasing away a fraction of her tiredness. She quickly makes her way through the breeze to his front door and raps against it before she can change her mind. Her knuckles have barely left the wood before it swings open; he hasn’t given her anywhere near enough time for her nerves to settle, although that’s probably for the best.

He greets her wordlessly, looking somewhat rumpled in flannel and worn jeans, slightly dishevelled hair and a few days of unkempt stubble at his jaw. If he hadn’t answered the door so fast she’d have guessed he’s just rolled out of bed. His lips press together in a line as he gives her a subtle once over – something she’d fully expected he’d do.

Having to get properly dressed in order to leave the house means she probably looks a little less miserable than the last time he saw her—although he always has been good at looking past the obvious. His gaze stalls lower than her eye level.

Her neck.

Her insides twist uneasily, and the jagged edge of her car keys digs firmly into her skin as she squeezes them tight in her hand.

She wonders how long it will take before he stops seeing her _that way_ first.

Bloody and broken and defeated.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I look like crap?” She asks lightly, desperate to disperse the tension before it has a chance to settle in any further.

“Well that would be just plain rude,” he replies with a quirk of his eyebrow, and meets her eyes again with a look that’s a little softer this time.

A smile twitches at her lips, and the tension in her fingers eases as they uncurl from her palms.

He pulls the door open wider for her and she takes a hesitant step past him and into his entry. There’s a faint thud of the door pressing shut behind her and a low offer of beer from his lips. A drink is something she could use right about now, and with a tight smile, she nods once and he disappears around the corner into his kitchen.

She’s always felt a little out of place in his home and this time is no exception; she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to follow him or not. After a few false starts of her feet shuffling after him, she decides to stay put. It takes even longer to decide where exactly to place her car keys on the entry table.

“For a bit there I thought you might have fallen asleep in your car.”

Her head jerks towards the sound of his voice as he returns with an open bottle of Guinness in each hand.

It takes her a moment to fully process the comment.

“You knew I was out there?” she frowns.

“Saw your lights when you pulled up,” he says, and her eyes instinctively shift in the direction of her car.

She’s suddenly aware that he knows just how long she’d been sitting in his driveway. It’s mildly mortifying.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Looked like you were thinking pretty hard—didn’t want to interrupt.”

At first it sounds like a typical attempt by him to smooth things over with satire. But when she looks hard enough, past the guarded expression he’s holding on to, his eyes give away what the rest of him doesn’t. He would never push her, not even if he needs her right now.

Of course he’d let her sit in her car.

He would have let her drive home too if that’s what she’d decided.

“I thought maybe it was a bad idea for me to come here,” she says softly, hoping that he fully understands all the reasons why, as well as all the reasons she’s here anyway.

“It doesn’t have to be, Carter,” he says gently.

There’s a softness in his voice that matches his eyes, and she can see that he means it. Or at least, that he wants to mean it; that they can be two friends watching jellyfish together and still be capable of towing the line.

She not convinced that’s completely true anymore, not after everything they’ve been through—after everything they are still going through—but she can feel some of the apprehension she’s holding onto begin to ebb away anyway.

“Come on,” he tilts one of the beers in the direction of the television that’s droning away in his living room. “You missed some of the start, but it wasn’t any good. Unless you happen to really hate dolphins.”

She gives him a quizzical look as he starts towards the couch.

“There were orcas.”

“Oh... I thought it was about jellyfish?”

“I’m as disappointed as you.”

The lounge room is dimly lit and it seems to match his shadowy mood perfectly. It’s easy to picture him here, filling his time with mindless television, take out and beer. Though, there isn’t a scattered mess of empty bottles or pizza boxes like she thought there might be—other than the single pizza box on the coffee table.

“I saved some slices for you—I can warm them up?” he offers, and he passes her one of the bottles as she sinks down onto the sofa. There’s no brush of his fingertips, subtle or otherwise, and when he takes a seat beside her, it’s a perfectly appropriate distance away.

“No thank you, that’s okay.”

“You sure? There’s no anchovies.”

She appreciates the consideration (since he usually orders his pizza with everything) but shakes her head anyway.

“Daniel brought me way too much lunch,” she says in enough of an explanation.

“Yes,” he nods slowly, “he does like to over compensate with the food.”

She gives him another tight smile and tries to drink down the unwelcome anxiety in her belly.

They sit together in a silence that won’t edge any further past semi-comfortable as they watch the documentary. It takes her a half a bottle of Guiness, fifteen minutes of not-jellyfish and a back-and-forth of swift glances passing between them before she finds her voice.

"Are you doing okay?” she asks carefully.

A long silence passes, but it’s not that he seems annoyed or put-off by the question, only that he’s considering his response carefully.

“Yeah, sometimes,” he finally murmurs.

The answer is refreshingly honest and it’s oddly reassuring to hear that he’s in no way immune to all this.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks back.

“Sometimes,” she softly mirrors his reply.

He nods almost imperceptibly and stares at her like he’s not just looking at her, but into her, until the atmosphere around them becomes thick with different frisson of tension. She catches the telling movement of his throat as he swallows hard, and the way his fingers twitch, once, twice, against his thigh before his hand reaches for hers resting on the sofa between them. When his fingers intertwine with hers, she finds herself swallowing hard against something heavy too.

“Sometimes is good,” he says, with a squeeze of his hand.

She wants to believe it, and when he says it, it feels true. Perhaps it’s enough of a truth, and hopefully ‘sometimes’ will soon turn into ‘most of the time’. Until the bubble in her chest disappears in the same vague way it came to exist. Until they’ll both be themselves again.

Except being themselves means not doing _this._

Whatever _this_ is.

She desperately wants to look down at his hand still holding hers, at the warm reassuring tangle of his fingers, but she’s certain that he’ll let go the moment her eyes shift away from his. Instead, she squeezes his hand back and holds onto him tightly in the little moment of stillness between them—the same way she’s done before, behind the steel bars of a damp cell.

Eventually he averts his eyes back to the tv-screen, but he doesn’t pull away or attempt to unthread from her grip. His thumb traces soothing little circles over her hand and wrist, softly, carefully, like maybe it doesn’t really count if he’s barely touching her, and she studiously follows his lead and lets the documentary retake her attention. She pretends not to notice (not for the first time) the way the pad of his thumb keeps pausing over her pulse point every so often.

For every sensible part of her that tells her to not be here doing this, there’s an equally as persistent voice in the back of her head that keeps telling her that maybe she should be.

Because it seems like they need each other.

The jellyfish do finally make an appearance, and after enough sips of beer her voice breaks through her tightened throat, and he obliges in listening to her explain how bio-luminescence works as they watch the iridescent blobs bob across the screen.

Her voice fills the space around them until the alcohol humming through body makes her relaxed and sleepy, and somewhere between leaning back into the cushions and his fingers going slack in her own, she falls asleep. 

 

* * *

 

A strangled scream jerks him awake and away from vivid tortured memories.

For a few disorienting seconds he’s caught between nightmare and reality as her throaty gasps drag roughly through the air beside him.

“Carter!” The sound of his own voice is lost beneath the rush of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, as the raw remnants of his own bloody nightmare courses through his system.

An anguished sound leaves her lips. Her hands fly to her stomach, flattening over her abdomen in a terrifying kind of confusion, then pulling away shakily—like she’s searching for a bloody evidence that doesn’t exist.

It twists at his insides.

“Sam!”

She turns to him with wide eyes and confusion etched into her features.

He reaches for her reactively and crushes her against him. It’s an awkward angle, and she’s stiff in his arms as she draws in ragged breaths of air and exhales them unevenly over his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs the half-truth into her hair. The reassurance is for him as much as it is for her, and he repeats it a few more times for good measure.

He doesn’t flinch at the sharp sting of her fingernails digging into his sides, despite the fact that she’s undoubtedly marking him with little crescent-shaped indents through the fabric of his shirt. It’s an anchor; something to focus on.

_Real. Warm. Alive._

His hold on her tightens.

Inevitably, her shaky breaths morph into sharp sobs, and the way she tries to choke them back down creates a sickly noise in her throat that makes his stomach churn. The image of her struggling to draw breath through her ruined throat is too fresh in his mind.

Too similar. Too soon.

It has him pressing his eyes closed and breathing heavily into the curve of her neck.

It’s a strange kind of relief when she finally sags against him and just _cries_.

They stay pressed tightly together until she eventually says with a soft sniff, “I need to get up.” He relents, releasing his grip so she can slowly untangle herself from him.

Nothing about her seems remotely steady yet, her voice least of all. When she pulls back there’s no missing the redness of her eyes, or the tears on her cheeks before she wipes them away. Pointless though as more spring up to take their place.

Waking up this way, with her here, has him thrown. And for a moment he feels stuck for what to do as he watches her stand up and make her way towards his kitchen, looking a little dazed.

He tries to ignore the rapid pace of his blood pounding and the visceral sense of dread in his gut that hasn’t had enough time to settle yet. Scrubbing one hand over his face, he rubs the other over the tense, aching muscles at the back of his neck (falling asleep sitting up is ill-advised). Then he turns off the long forgotten television and follows after her.

He finds her at the kitchen sink splashing water against her cheeks. He stops at the end of the counter in order to give her some space, which seems like the right thing to do – to give her room to try and collect herself.

Right up until she shuts off the faucet and starts futzing with his coffee maker.

He eyes the clock on the wall wearily.

“Carter... it’s two-thirty in the morning.”

“Where do you keep your filters?” she sniffs, swiping her face with the back of her hand.

Either she’s missed the careful mix of concern and disapproval in his tone, or she’s ignoring it. The fact that she won’t meet his eyes tells him it’s the latter.

He frowns and settles his gaze on her, watching while she searches the less-than-organized drawer nearest to her with single minded determination.

She’s trying to hold herself together.

He knows the feeling.

Right now it’s taking every effort to let go of the bloody images of her and stop over-laying them onto the version of her that’s standing here in his kitchen.

“Here, I’ll do it,” he says softly, crossing the floor and moving her aside with a careful hand at her elbow.

He shuts the drawer she’s been unsuccessfully digging in, and takes out a packet of filters and two mugs from the cupboard above the coffee maker.

The weight of her stare is heavy as he goes about the task.

Carter’s perceptive—always has been—and he realizes too late he’s made the mistake of allowing her focus to shift from a task she obviously needed, to him.

Maybe it’s the light sweat that slicks his skin, or his too firm grip on the canister of coffee grounds, or maybe it’s just that she knows him too damn well, but something he does gives away his own less-than-stable state.

Her tentative hand covers his, stilling his actions and pulling him away from the coffee she seemed so desperate for. A gentle, urging tug of her fingers curled around his own has him reluctantly turning to face her.

When he meets her eyes, the expression on her face makes something clench almost painfully inside him. It’s unguarded and full of understanding; a vulnerability there that he hasn’t seen before. A sad little furrow pinches at her brow, and she blinks up at him from beneath visibly wet lashes.

With a deliberate movement she lifts his hand to her neck and flattens his palm against her steady pulse, her fingers slipping between his and filling the spaces and holding it there. It catches him off guard; she’s beating with the certainty of life under his touch.

Just when he thought he’d been subtle about it.

_Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum._

His shoulders sag and his jaw unclenches; a tension he didn’t know he’d been holding falling away.

She’s devastating and beautiful and alive and _right here_.

Something inside him snaps.

His mouth covers hers—demanding and desperate.

A whimpered moan hums against his lips and he sweeps his tongue firmly along her bottom lip and the crease of her mouth. Eager to reassure himself with more of her; to taste her life. Her mouth opens easily—willingly—beneath his. And whatever facade she’s been holding up seems to crumble right along with his.

His tongue strokes against hers, hot and insistent, and his free hand tangles into her mussed hair. He threads his fingers tightly through the strands, urging her closer until she’s moulding herself against him, kissing him back with the same sense of urgency and groping at him over the fabric of his shirt—like she’s as desperate as he is for the contact between them.

_Real. Warm. Alive._

The quickening of her pulse hammering hard under his palm spurs him on and he groans into her mouth, turning them and pushing her backwards until she’s pressed firmly between him and the cabinetry. He leans into her. To get _closer_. To have _more_. There’s a clatter of empty mugs knocking over behind her, followed by a scatter of coffee grounds spilling across the counter top.

There’s nothing but the heat of her fingers working their way beneath his shirt and digging into the muscles of his back. And the desperate noise she makes into his mouth as his hands start to tug at her clothing stirs something inside him that’s already out of control.

He wants to drink her down until he’s filled back up, and as they fumble their way down the hall towards his bedroom, she seems like she might just be enough to do it.

The sight of her laid out against his sheets and moving beneath him is intoxicating. He leans his weight over the length of her body and his hips bump hard against hers; pressing her into the mattress with a sharp nip of his teeth at her lips.

Her frenzied hands tug at his shirt, pushing it down and off his shoulders, until his chest is brushing the cotton of her bra between them and her hands are clutching him. His fingers trail a path down her side, brushing over the curve of her breast, and grip firmly just above her denim clad hips. Her skin is hot under his touch. She arches against him and he groans at the feel of her fingernails scraping over his scalp and through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

He tugs her lower lip between his teeth and then drags his mouth along her jaw and down the column of her neck. There’s a distinct rasp of his stubble scratching at her flushed skin as his teeth graze the cords of her neck and his tongue runs a wet trail over the curve of her throat—searching for the evidence of her too-quick pulse against his lips.

_Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum._

The quiet of the room is filled with the sound of heavy breaths and gasps as his hands roam her body and slip beneath her bra to palm at her breasts. When he licks at the hollow above her clavicle, tasting the salt of her skin, a guttural moan escapes her and vibrates against his lips. The hum of it shoots straight down his spine. It has his hips jerking against her and his mouth meets hers again in a searing kiss.

The responding roll of her hips is so full of promise.

He wonders if he can be inside her, if she’ll finally feel real enough and warm enough and alive enough against him.

The errant thought hits him hard in the chest and a crushing wave of guilt crashes into him.

And everything just stops.

For the first time since he kissed her, he pulls back to look at her—really look at her—and suddenly it becomes all too apparent just how incredibly wrong this all is.

The way she moves against him is too frantic—too desperate—and there’s a distinct tremble of her fingers as she fumbles at his belt buckle between them.

And she’s crying. Whether she knows it or not is completely irrelevant.

Just how long was he planning to ignore the taste of her tears when he kissed her?

“Stop,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

To his surprise, she does, instantly.

He’s not sure if it’s because she’s just that good at putting the brakes on or if she’s so used to following his orders.

Everything becomes very still, and the silence in the room is deeply unsettling. Her eyes press closed and her body stiffens beneath him. Even her breath seems to be caught in lungs, but then, so is his. The seconds that pass feel like they’re drawn out into something much, much longer, until she finally opens her eyes and meets his.

“Please,” she whispers, and it sounds like a question mixed with a plea. Her voice is so soft and yet the tremble there seems overwhelming loud—as if to point out just how much they do need to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, cupping her jaw and swiping his thumb over the wet traces of tears at her cheeks.

There’s a flash of hurt in her eyes before they slip closed again and she lets out a sigh that matches it. In a silent apology, he rests his forehead against hers, lingering briefly until she makes an attempt to move away.

Everything about the moment stings and he understands the need to escape it, however his hand reaches out despite himself, settling over the denim on her hips to stop her.

“Don’t go.”

She freezes, her back turned to him.

He hates that he isn’t a better sort of man. A better sort of officer. The kind that could let her go now instead of in the morning. The kind that could have stopped himself earlier and saved them both from this ache.

He tugs the sheets up over them and carefully wraps his arms around her, slowly pulling her towards him until her back is pressed to his chest.

He holds her, and she lets him, though she doesn’t fully relax against him.

“Jack—”

“Not your fault,” he murmurs into her hair, effectively cutting off what sounds suspiciously like it might be the start of an apology—even if it’s only his name. “Just sleep. Okay?”

This isn’t something that they’ll be able to let go without a conversation, but now isn’t the time.

There’s a barely discernible nod of her head against the pillows, and as the minutes pass by, the obvious tension in her body slowly slips away. But the reality of what they have done leaves him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His brain fires off thoughts of both rationalization and regret at him at a frightening pace, until for the first time in a long time, the feel of her against him is no source of comfort.

Sleep finds her, but it doesn’t find him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a minute, but I got here! A huge thank you to Sharim28 for the beta, and for the never ending support. Magic.<3

_In this time of substitute,_  
it's my needs I've answered to (all the while).  
_And all the hope that I invest,_  
turns to signals of distress (all the while).  
_I don't need nobody._  
_I don't need the weight of words_  
_to find the way to crash on through._  
_I don’t need nobody._  
_I just need to learn the depth_  
or doubt of faith to fall into.  
__  
Needs - Collective Soul

 

* * *

 

One slow blink of her eyes is all it takes for reality to make its unwelcome appearance. She’s wrapped in sheets that aren’t hers, in a bed she shouldn’t be in, and acutely aware that there’s no longer a warm body beside her.

Sitting up, she runs her hand through her mussed hair, then slides it across the mattress and beneath rumpled sheets beside her; it’s cool to touch. She wonders how long she’s been lying here alone. 

Early morning sun slips through a gap in the curtains; her eye catches the line of burnt orange light cast over her top folded at the foot of the bed. She’s still in her jeans and her bra, but she couldn’t feel more naked right now. It’s as if the morning itself is offering its reproach.

Quietly slipping out of bed, she reaches for the shirt and tugs it over her head. The fabric brushes along a sensitive patch of her neck where his stubble has marked her skin. Her fingertips graze over the spot reactively; it feels as out of place on her body as she does being alone in his bedroom. Then she ignores it—much the same way she ignores the knot in her stomach—and goes to search for him.

Hesitantly, she pads down the hallway, her bare feet cold against the cool tiles. There’s a soft clink of crockery coming from the kitchen and she can’t help but wince at the thought of revisiting that particular space; of having to look him in the eye there.

Maybe in another universe there’s a version of her that’s walking towards the smell of buttered toast and eggs and no broken rules.

She finds him with his back towards her, sweeping coffee grounds on the counter top into a pile with his hands. There’s an air of tension about him, and it‘s enough to hinder her ability to take another step. So she lingers in the doorway, quietly watching him tidy up the mess they made the night before.

She’s never been very good at this part. Now least of all.

The word “Hey,” leaves her mouth just above a whisper.

He turns and meets her eyes before she’s fully prepared for it. He looks stiff and not just a little bit uncomfortable as he stares at her for a length of time she doesn’t care to measure.

“Morning,” he finally says, slowly dusting the remnants of coffee from his hands.

She waits for him to say something else—anything at all—but he just keeps staring at her with a slight pinch in his brow, and the silence stretches out long enough that she can’t bare to not fill it.

“We should probably talk,” she suggests.

“Probably.”

More silence.

If she’d left last night when she had the chance then maybe they could have avoided this part. Apparently they’re much better at ignoring things than they are at talking about them.

She can see him swallow hard, and she finds herself doing the same.

“This was a mistake,” he says.

And there it is.

“If we hadn’t been through hell this wouldn’t have happened,” he adds, and the line between his eyebrows deepens as the words settle around them. 

She wants to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong, except she knows that it’s true.

Normally they tow the line—duty comes first—but they’re so messed up right now, him as much as her, that they’re cracking at the seams. They aren’t through this yet either.

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” is all she can think to say.

“Carter, you have a boyfriend.”

The knot in her stomach drops straight to her feet.

“He’s not you,” she says softly, and immediately she wishes she hadn’t said it.

Suddenly it feels as though she’s digging herself a hole she isn’t going to be able to claw her way out of.

“Don’t do that.”

“Well what do you want me to say?” She almost chokes on the question; it gets caught up in her throat before it makes its way past her lips. 

The look of hurt on her face must be telling, because for the first time since she walked into the kitchen he averts her eyes; it’s disconcerting watching him speak to the cabinets instead of her.

“This was… We slipped up. It happens—it can happen after something like this—but it can’t happen again,” he says, as if it can all be explained away by trauma. As if their feelings had nothing to do with it. 

An uneasy expression crosses his features and his eyes find hers again. 

“I think we need some space,” he adds.

Suddenly the short distance between them feels incredibly vast.

She hates him a little bit then, for being this way. For falling back on a coping mechanism he knows best. For shutting down when it all gets _too much_. And she hates herself for being so compromised that she couldn’t see it coming.

The sense of duty she understands, but she’s not sure she can forgive him for choosing to let them both go it alone when she’s asking him not to. 

She focuses on keeping her voice measured; to keep the hurt from escaping. 

“I guess you’ve thought a lot about this,” she says.

“I haven’t really slept.”

The words sting even if it isn’t their intent, and she’s hit with a pang of guilt. He was awake worrying about what they’d done, while she slept soundly beside him.

It’s not often that she feels stupid.

“I’m just... going to go,” she indicates towards the entryway with a slight of her hand, and wills her feet to move.

She’s worried if she stays any longer she might hear herself beg him with a ‘ _please’_ for a second time.

Keys. Cell. Shoes.

It’s not until her hand is on the front door handle, ready to make her escape, that she realizes he’s there, standing right behind her. He’s almost too close, and she swears if he touches her now – if he reminds her of what she’s losing – she’s not going to be able to hold it together. 

The moment she has the door slightly ajar he reaches past her and presses it shut again. The thunk of the door fitting back into the frame fills up the silence. Neither of them move.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her back, cutting through the quiet. His voice is low and solemn, like he needs her to understand that he means it.

The sting in her eyes is treacherous and she keeps them safely fixed on her fingers curled around the door handle.

“Yeah,” she nods slowly. She believes him, but it hurts all the same. “I’ll see you at work.”

This time when she opens the door, he doesn’t try to close it. 

 

* * *

 

Pete comes home on a warm Tuesday morning—smiling and sweet and happy to see her. It feels strange to end their relationship on day that should otherwise be perfect.

She wishes he hadn’t made it so hard. That he wasn’t so supportive and understanding. That he didn’t assure her no matter what had happened, they’d get through it together. That he wanted to be there for her.

That he loved her.

He’d been adamant and sure and caring, right up until the words “I was with someone else” tumbled from her lips.

She doesn’t want anyone to ever look at her like that again.

Whether he meant to or not, at some point Pete had put her on a pedestal, and this must look like such a magnificent fall from grace.

Then he was gone without another word.

It makes her feel sick that she has the audacity to feel hurt by that; she’d broken his heart, not the other way around.

The warmth of the day slips away, allowing the shadows and chill of the evening to gradually creep in; the fading light seems more appropriate. And when she’s sitting alone at her kitchen table with a mug in her hands, staring at a cell phone that neither man will be calling, she finally gives herself permission to cry.


End file.
